


A Close Shave

by imitateslife



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: This might be the closest shave the Scarlet Pimpernel has ever had - and at the hands of his wife, no less!





	A Close Shave

“When were you planning to tell me that you arrived home?” Marguerite asked from the mouth of Percy’s bedroom.

Dawn stretched into the sky, the color of celebratory champagne. But, of course, there was little to celebrate about the state Percy was in. His latest mission to France had been a success – she could tell from the way he held his head, the way his eyes shone, that the Scarlet Pimpernel had once more triumphed over the masses. But victory had its price and as Marguerite studied his arm – dressed and splinted expertly- she wondered just how high a price her husband was willing to pay for the lives of complete strangers.

“As soon as I managed to make myself presentable, of course, m’lady,” Percy said.

Laid out before him on the vanity were all the accoutrements for a shave – soap, a water basin, brush, razor, and strop. For a fleeting, heated and angry second, Marguerite thought Percy had called for a barber before he had called for his wife. However, all implements were untouched. The room was still and quiet. Realization sank slowly into Marguerite’s stomach, plunging her anger into icy chill.

“You don’t mean to get yourself ready without help!”

“Why, of course,” he said. “I’ve still got one good hand and I’ll be demmed if we join good society while I look such an embarrassment.”

“Percy, perhaps – given the circumstances – you shouldn’t attend the garden party this afternoon. You weren’t expected home until tomorrow, as it is.”

“I won’t hear such nonsense!” he said. His free hand hovered over the instruments of shaving. “Really, my dear Margot, I expected you to be happier to see me home and safe a full day in advance!”

“In case it has escaped your notice,” she said, walking into the bedroom, no longer waiting for an invitation. “Your arm is broken.”

“Sink me! It’s naught but a sprained wrist!”

“All the same,” she said. “You are in no condition for garden parties, much less for giving yourself a proper shave.”

“Send a courier, then,” he said. “Straight into London to fetch my barber.”

Marguerite picked up razor and strop’s free end and studied the blade’s sharpness.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “Chin up.”

The sight of his proud wife offering to shave him sent ripples of laughter through Sir Percy Blakeney. This only served to ignite flames of irritation in Lady Blakeney’s eyes. Marguerite did not lower the instruments, but began stropping the blade with deliberate, rhythmic impatience.  

“Odd’s my life! You’re serious!”

“Of course,” Marguerite assured him. “I used to shave Armand in the mornings. We agreed it would one day be a necessary skill, should I ever marry. Clearly, we were right to think so.”

Her humble beginnings were not a topic Marguerite usually broached. The loss of her parents was, of course painful, but more painful still was the fear that she would remind her husband that he had but a common wife. However, as she stood before him now, she hardly seemed _common_. What wife – whether she be aristocratic or of lowly birth – would make such an offer, when a barber could be fetched? She and Percy studied each other for a moment and then slowly, he lifted his chin to expose his throat and jaw.

“Do be careful,” he told her. “I’ve sustained enough injury without being cut by that razor.”

Marguerite laid the newly sharpened blade aside and began to work a lather with the soap and the brush. She painted her husband’s throat, jaw and chin with thorough strokes. She moved slowly, but with precision, over his skin. She found it easier to reach all scruffy parts of his face by sliding between him and the vanity. She hummed as she worked – a song from one of the operas they’d attended last season. She felt his skin pull beneath her hand as he smiled.

“Don’t move,” she instructed. “it’s just the soap now, but it’s as you’ve said: I’d rather not cut you with the razor.”

“Apologies,” Percy said. Then, “Is that Mozart? _Cosi Fan Tutte_?”

Marguerite paused. “I suppose it is, yes.”

“What fun we had seeing it! Nice to see a comedy for a change, what!” He sighed. Then, “Am I moving too much?”

“Indeed, you are. Unless you wish to arrive late and unshaven, conversation can wait.”

“I am yours to command.” He paused and then said, “But I have missed your voice.”

“And I yours,” Marguerite said. “But Percy, there will be time enough to talk as we please in the carriage and at the party itself. This really must be done in all haste.”

“Don’t be overhasty, my love,” he said. “I’ll look a demmed mess if you give me an uneven shave in your hurry.”

Marguerite sighed and picked up the blade once more.

“Hold still.”

The blade barely pressed his skin. Percy admired Marguerite’s swift, clean movements. The feeling of her soft hands against his throat, checking her work excited him. She held his life in his hands – no man had ever gotten a blade so close to the Scarlet Pimpernel’s throat. He wondered if Marguerite could feel his pulse and whether was his imagination or if her breaths were growing shallower as she worked. She moved from throat to firm jawline; jawline to cheek, only pausing to rinse the blade. The subtle splashing of the water as Marguerite shook the razor in the basin and the trilling birds outside the window, but most especially Marguerite’s humming – which had resumed – made a beautiful symphony. How he had missed the sounds of home amidst the bloody cries of revolution! A smile curled Percy’s lips and Marguerite withdrew from him. She rinsed the razor again.

“I’ll never get rid of your two-day mustache if you keep smiling like that,” Marguerite said. She sounded for all the world like she was admonishing him, but Percy looked at his wife and saw the merry glint in her blue eyes, the tilt of her head. Her humors were second nature to him; he could almost read her mind and so he said: “I’m only thinking how good it is to be home.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you would rather stay home than go to the garden party!” Marguerite said. “But surely Sir Percy Blakeney would never _dream_ of depriving society of his company.”

“It’s worse than that, my lady,” he countered. “I fear I dream of depriving society of not only my company but yours as well. Would that we could stay like this all day!”

“Like this?” Marguerite brushed soap above Percy’s lip where the finest, blonde mustache had begun to sprout. “Silly man – if you stayed like this all day, the soap would dry out your skin.”

“That sounds monstrous uncomfortable,” Percy agreed. He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling as Marguerite shaved away the mustache. When she finished, cleaned and dried him, he said, “Almost as uncomfortable as being the only mustachioed fool in London.”

“You needn’t worry about that.” Marguerite said as she rinsed and dried the razor blade one last time. “I’ve seen to it you will once more reign supreme over all the fashionable fools in London. See for yourself.”

She shifted upon the vanity so that Percy had a clear view of his own reflection. Gone was the stubbly shadow adorning his face these last few days. He again looked young and clean and handsome. He ran his fingertips along the now smooth skin of his cheeks and jaw. He murmured his approval and looked up at her. While Percy may have been studying his cleanshaven skin, Marguerite found herself studying the weariness in his blue eyes. She imagined that he had not slept well on the rough seas and that he had not slept at all in France. She slid from the vanity to his knee and drew Percy in for a slow, gentle kiss.

“Are you satisfied, then, good sir?” she asked, cradling his cheek in her hand.

“Mm,” he agreed. “Though I must say I’ve never finished a shave with the barber in my lap and plying me with kisses…”

“I should hope not!” Marguerite laughed. “Oh, Percy… are you quite certain you need to attend the garden party? No one expects you back at Richmond until tomorrow – you would do better to sleep than to take in too much sun.”

“Are you a physician as well as a barber now? My dear Margot, will your talents never cease?”

“I could send a courier to our host,” Marguerite murmured. As she spoke, she trailed soft kisses against Percy’s newly-shaven jawline. He smelled sweet from the soap and salty from the sea and his own, rugged pursuits. Her eyes fell shut. “A courier… along with my deepest apologies. I shall tell them I have taken ill. Then, tomorrow, when you reappear in society, you will tell everyone you sprained your wrist in your clumsy haste to return to your wife. I will recover by week’s end… but until then, I really ought to stay in bed.”

Percy laughed and nuzzled against her.

“And shall I tend you until you are well?” he asked.

“I couldn’t ask that of you! Not with your wrist so grievously injured…”

“Then perhaps we should tend each other all afternoon.”

And so a courier was sent and the Blakeneys spent the day tending to one another’s needs and whims in Percy’s great, four-poster bed. When, of course, they returned to society, looking well and rested, glittering and jovial, no one was any the wiser about what it was the two of them truly did away from prying eyes.


End file.
